Caesura
by trufflemores
Summary: 2.11. Barry talks to Iris after Francine dies.


"Hey, Iris, what's – hey. What's wrong?"

"I shouldn't be sad," Iris says, tears streaming down her face. She shakes her head, looking skyward. "I didn't even know her."

"What's going on?" Barry asks, tripping over his chair as he gets up. Iris isn't sure she wants him to get up. Maybe if something is completely normal, it'll be okay. Things will be right again.

She wants to move. Somewhere. Anywhere the emotions can't touch her.

The lab – it used to be a safe space. Barry used to be someone she could trust fully, intrinsically, and then –

Then she found out he was the Flash. Things changed.

When he walks towards her, it's without the familiar duck-waddle. It's smooth, crisp; the way he tucks his arms around her is the same. "It's okay," he whispers against her shoulder. "Whatever it is, it'll be okay."

She wants to believe him, to trust the hand that skims soothingly down her back. But lately it's been hard to believe anything as simple as _it's okay_. Not when the most basic foundations in her life keep being ripped up from underneath her. Brigg. Eddie. Francine and Wally.

 _The Flash_.

Despite the reassuring pressure of his arms around her, she knows he's only so strong. He has limits; he can only shrug so much off. Seeing what Zoom did to him makes her want to capture him in her arms and never, ever let him go.

She's glad he's got a tight hold on her now because she doesn't know how gravity isn't pulling her to her knees under the weight of it all. No matter which path she follows, there's a _catch_. Becoming a paid journalist and befriending Linda Park? _That_ puts her emotionally at ground zero on two levels when Zoom strikes: terrified for Barry and deeply concerned for her _friend_. Meeting her mother and brother for the first time? It's complicated: you don't get to just _start over_.

Dating Eddie?

She still can't think about him. Wakes up in the middle of the night _missing him_. Feels like she can't breathe at times for how suddenly he was taken away from them.

It helps to have Barry, at least: he's constant. Late – always late – but he gets there. Lets her retreat into his arms until she can breathe again; stays up watching TV he has no interest in just so she can curl up against him on the couch; listens to her talk while making coffee even though he's tired, bone-tired, after a long day because she's tired too.

So when he asks her gently, "What's going on?"

She sighs softly, tucking her chin over his shoulder. Doesn't have an adequate response.

He doesn't ask again.

For a time she just holds onto him, wondering how she still takes his presence for granted. She can still walk into the forensics lab and knows he'll be there; if not there, then Star Labs; and if not Star Labs, Jitters, home, Starling. _Somewhere_. Barry is always reachable. Even if she has to wait for him to respond, he always comes home.

To _her_.

He is as much home as their house is; more so, in many ways. She feels safer with him around—and not just because he can run faster than the speed of sound. He exudes _calmness_ like it's a physical force, projecting steadiness and confidence. It's something she can feel.

Something that grounds her and gives her solid ground to finally speak.

"Francine – doesn't have much time left," she sighs, not moving even when she feels his fingers pause for a moment before rubbing her back again, up and down, up and down, utterly hypnotic. "And honestly, I don't – _owe her_ anything, but I feel like I lost an opportunity to know her."

"You didn't," Barry says softly. She can feel his voice in his chest; it's grounding, calming. "You get to meet her _now_. Even if it's brief . . . it's so much better than nothing, Iris."

She thinks he speaks from a place of genuine understanding: wonders not for the first time what it was like for him on that night fourteen years ago, the second time around. He's explained it to her – briefly, haltingly – and she wonders how it could be worth it.

Then she thinks about what she would give to see Eddie one more time. How much she would sacrifice for just one minute with him. To hold him, hear his laugh, see his big, earnest smile. Listen to him say, _Hi, Iris_.

She misses him, she misses him, she misses him.

Squeezing Barry hard, trying to crush some of the pain out of herself, using his solidarity as something she _can_ build upon, she asks, "How is it worth it?"

He hums. Tilts his head, resting it ever so slightly against hers, and replies, "It's closure." Rocking her lightly, he adds, "It's knowing you did the best you could, given the circumstances. It doesn't need to be perfect to be enough."

She exhales slowly, reluctant to leave the tangible warmth radiating from him, but she has to meet his eyes when she asks, "Was it enough?"

Barry smiles ruefully. "Never," he admits. "But it's closure."

Iris nods, reaching up to brush the lingering tears off her face. She shouldn't even need closure with Francine – but she's a part of her life, now. She's her mother. It's impossible to ignore her; harder still once Iris realizes she isn't a terrible person: easy to hate, easy to ignore. She's made bad choices, but she's human, likable, _dying_.

Logically, she shouldn't need closure.

But emotionally, she knows she does.

"Why don't we go out for coffee?" Barry prompts, chafing his hands down her arms lightly. Electricity zigzags between them, tracing arcs along his fingers, painlessly warming her skin. She shivers slightly, expecting a jolt that never comes. "I can take some time off."

Iris thinks, _I should go back to work_.

But: "Coffee sounds really nice."

. o .

It's been a while, but they still know the dance.

They're at Jitters, at a tiny table in the corner. Small enough to justify her foot resting lightly on both of his under the table. His fingers inevitably curl around the rim of her mug as he lifts it for a taste, eyelids sliding shut in pleasure at the first hint. He's simple, routine, ordering lattes without any sort of embellishment; she likes to mix things up, frequently ordering drinks even she wouldn't normally pick out just so she can gauge his reaction. He samples while she talks about the stories on her desk, responding easily to questions about the editing staff, expected publication dates, and lines she's interested in pursuing.

He's a good audience – patient, easygoing; keeping pace without losing interest – and she likes that he doesn't try to steer her towards anything serious. He lets her steer the conversation. He drinks her coffee and "samples" her cinnamon muffin (read: eats at least two-thirds of it, but he buys her another muffin as an apology). He answers questions about Star Labs breezily, keeping it light, conversational.

It's easy to relax into their old routine; she'd almost forgotten they _had_ a routine. It's refreshing to _not_ have to worry about impressing him or keeping up appearances with him. She can't stress Dad; she can't show weakness at the office; and she can't let Wally's low-key responses phase her. He needs time; the office isn't personal; and Dad just wants her to be happy.

As long as she can balance the three, she'll be fine. But it's nice to not have to worry about it around Barry. Get things off her chest, but reconnect, too. Feel like something is _real_ again.

He makes it easy to just _relax_.

"We should do this more often," she prompts, playing lightly with his fingers, resting on the table absentmindedly between them.

And it doesn't – necessitate anything. It doesn't feel like a commitment or an obligation or even a promise she has to keep.

But it's something she wants – something she _misses_ – and something she desperately needs.

He turns his hand over and gently squeezes her, smiling easily as he echoes, "We should." Taking a bite of her blueberry muffin with his free hand, he adds, "Especially because these muffins are off the charts."

She taps his foot under the table in mock rebuke. "What, my company isn't enough?"

Barry grins. "You haven't tried the blueberry muffins yet," he reminds her, sliding the plate across the table.

In the end, they end up plowing through eight muffins (six blueberry, two cinnamon), with Barry overwhelmingly contributing to the cause. It's nice to sit and talk and not think about what time it is or where she needs to be or who else can need her attention.

She loves a lot of things about him and their relationship, but one of the things she enjoys the most is that he lets her process things at her own pace. She tries to reciprocate – even if Barry can be stubborn and a little too closed off for his own good. Sometimes it's challenging: they lost a lot of time.

But they're getting there. And the time they have _now_ matters. The moments she gets to spend with him are what makes it worthwhile.

 _Make it count_.

She holds onto his presence for a little longer than she thinks he'd let her – except he never pulls back – he never lets go.

Every cue says simply, _I'm right here. I'm listening. I've got you._

She can't quite put it into words how much she appreciates it, sufficing for a generous hug and a parting blueberry muffin as they head off to their respective lives.

They'll survive. Haltingly, sometimes one-step-forward-two-steps-back, but _somehow_ , they will make it through.

And that's all she can ask of him or them or anything.


End file.
